


chicago on high

by hotcuppa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotcuppa/pseuds/hotcuppa
Summary: when the quarantine started, ian didn’t think it would be all that bad.what he hadn’t expected was the effect it’d taken on his mental health.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 4
Kudos: 208





	chicago on high

**Author's Note:**

> set post s10
> 
> title is modified from (and the fic is inspired by) cover me up by jason isbell (though i highly recommend morgan wallen’s cover)
> 
> !!warning for depictions of mental health issues!!

_ “a heart on the run keeps a hand on the gun, can’t trust anyone. i was so sure what i needed was more, tried to shoot out the sun. days when we raged, we flew off the page, such damage was done. but i made it through, cause somebody knew i was meant for someone.” _

when the quarantine started, ian didn’t think it would be all that bad. a bit frustrating, sure, since they’d both lost their method of income—but they were getting unemployment checks that were more than enough for the time being, and debbie still brought money in occasionally, so ian was mostly happy to spend his days in the house with mickey, liam, debbie, and his niece. 

what he hadn’t expected was the effect it’d taken on his mental health. going off of his routine and being cooped up in the house hadn’t done him any favors, and of course he ran out of meds within three weeks and had to go out and get more. only, this time, the clinic changed his dosage and one of his meds entirely, and while ian hadn’t noticed immediate effects within the first few days, the change was more than noticeable now. he was always tired, but couldn’t sleep. he was sluggish and groggy all the time, felt like his brain was static and his limbs were moving in slow motion. sometimes, he couldn’t even keep up with conversation, or stand for the entire duration of a shower. 

it was frustrating, to say the least. over the years he’d come pretty far in managing his bipolar, and it felt like he was going backwards now. he felt almost as out of it as he’d felt when he was coming down off of lithium the first time, after he got out of the psych ward. like his bones are made of lead and his brain is styrofoam. 

he knows that everybody notices, but they don’t say anything. debbie just does this thing where she stares at him for a real long time, like she’s trying to solve a math problem but can’t quite find the value of x. and sometimes, she talks to him real softly, like she’s scared to set him off. she goes to liam or mickey for things she might’ve gone to ian for, before. 

mickey doesn’t treat him any differently, but ian sees the concern in his eyes. he doesn’t know what he hates more—the fact that he can’t manage his own shit, or the fact that mickey’s pitying him because of it. he hates walking around feeling like a ticking time bomb, and he hates feeling like his family is walking on eggshells around him. he hates knowing that they’ll never understand how it feels, that he can’t tell them that his brain feels like it leaked right out of his skull and down his spinal cord, that he hasn’t been able to taste anything for ten days and that he fell asleep in the shower the other night. he doesn’t want to disappoint them. he doesn’t want to give mickey a reason to treat him differently. not again. 

he forces himself out of bed at 11am, even though it takes every scrap of energy in his body to do so. usually, debbie has him up by 8:30am, making breakfast for franny and liam. mickey’s always up early, drinking coffee and watching some rerun on tv, pretending to read the newspaper. but today, ian slept in, and nobody came to wake him up. it makes him feel even more off-kilter, his stomach settling even farther down in his torso—even more lead weighing him down. 

ian shuffles down the stairs and into the kitchen, making a beeline for the coffee pot. he knows the caffeine won’t do anything to help, but he holds onto hope that this time might be different, anyway. the meds have to adjust at some point, right? he has to get used to them, eventually. 

mickey is at the table pretending to read the paper this time, eating a bowl of cereal. franny is with him, coloring on the comics page that mickey had given her. ian knows he’s not reading because his eyes aren’t moving—he’s cataloguing ian’s movements, watching him without watching him. ian feels his skin prickle with irritation, like poison ivy spreading across his body. he tries to shove it down with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. 

“morning,” mickey finally says, putting the paper down and looking over at ian. “i know you didn’t fall asleep until late, otherwise i would’ve woken your ass up. franny here demanded attention by 7:15, so you owe me.”

ian blinks. “i would’ve gotten up with her.”

“you needed the sleep.”

“i’m fine, mickey.”

“i know,” mickey snaps back, though it’s clear that he doesn’t believe that. ian feels his skin prickle again, so he turns his back, leaning against the counter and sipping his coffee again. he sees liam, now, sitting in the living room and watching something on tv. he doesn’t seem to notice or care that ian’s up. “you take your meds yet?” mickey asks, and ian closes his eyes. breathes. “you know you can’t take them on an empty stomach.”

“yes, i know. i haven’t taken them yet.” he pushes off the counter and grabs a pack of poptarts from the cabinet. he doesn’t bother with the toaster and instead downs one in four bites, washing it down with coffee. he finishes half of the other one before he finally turns back to mickey, who isn’t even trying to mask his concern anymore. 

“you feeling okay?”

ian nods, “i said i was fine. just tired, like you said.” he finishes off the poptart and then the coffee, and sets his mug in the sink. “i’m gonna go take them now.”

he sets off back up the stairs, trying to ignore the burn of mickey’s eyes on his back. he knows mickey’s just worried about him, and that it shouldn’t irritate him. he knows that mickey worries because he loves him. but it  _ is  _ irritating, no matter how much ian tries to calm himself down about it. 

it isn’t that he feels babied or smothered, even. it’s the fact that mickey shouldn't have to worry about him. ian feels every inch of seventeen again, laying in bed with mickey holding him, tears pooled in his eyes because he’d thought mickey was going to leave him. he feels like he’s back at the dugouts, begging mickey to just be that  _ shit-talking, bitch-slapping piece of southside trash that i fell for.  _ mickey’s better about it now, but ian thinks he shouldn’t have to be. he shouldn’t have to have a fucking  _ protocol  _ on how to treat ian’s mental illness. it’s not his responsibility, he shouldn’t have to deal with this. it’s the guilt and the self-hatred, more than anything, that makes ian so fucking angry. 

for a few long moments after he takes his meds, he stares at himself in the bathroom mirror. he stares at the purple bags under his eyes, the sickly paleness of his skin, the bloodshot eyes, just how exhausted he looks. his shoulders are sagging, his expression is blank, his hair is a greasy mess. he wants to punch the mirror until it’s nothing but shards, but he can’t even find the strength to lift his arm. 

after he gathers more energy, he pads his way back downstairs. mickey’s not sitting at the table anymore, is instead washing dishes, and franny has gone to join liam in the living room. ian takes the opportunity to sit down at the kitchen table, almost sighing at the relief of sitting down. his knees had started to feel a little wobbly and uneven, like they might’ve given out if he hadn’t sat down soon. 

“you take them?” mickey asks again, looking over at him. ian clenches his fist, this time, since he doesn’t have his coffee mug to grip. 

“yes.”

mickey nods, accepting the answer and not pushing it any farther. ian wonders if mickey counts his meds, and if that’s why he’s so confident that ian takes them. just the thought makes his entire body run hot with anger. 

as much as he hates to admit it to himself, he kind of welcomes the irritation this morning. being angry is so much better than feeling nothing. he’s been empty for so fucking long, he is more than okay with boiling over. he’d rather burn than waste away like nothing. 

“well now that you’re awake, sleeping beauty, maybe you can actually do the laundry that your lazy ass has been putting off.”

ian’s entire body tenses, and he’s glad, now, that he doesn’t have the mug. he would’ve surely broken it with how tight his fist clenches. “huh?”

“you heard me, lazy bones,” mickey teases, a smile on his face as he looks over at ian. “i’ve been asking you for days to do the laundry and you haven’t done it yet. so maybe now that you’ve slept in you can—”

“jesus christ, mick!” ian shocks even himself by snapping, and he doesn’t know when he stood up, but the chair is knocked over on the floor behind him and mickey is looking at him with wide eyes. ian practically vibrates with anger, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “i’ve been awake for all of ten minutes and all you’ve done is  _ bitch.  _ is this how it’s gonna be now?”

“what the fuck does that mean?”

“now that we’re married, you’re gonna be the nagging fucking housewife?”

mickey’s entire face pulls in the way it does when he’s pissed off, and while ian usually thinks it’s cute, today it makes him want to break something. “fuck you, man. i haven’t nagged you about shit, i've actually picked up a lot of fucking slack over the last few weeks—”

“oh, i’m so fucking  _ sorry _ that i’m so fucking useless. i’m sorry that you feel the need to baby me just because i’m a little tired.” when mickey doesn’t say anything, just blinks at him, ian barrels on. “we’ve talked about this, mickey. you can’t just treat me like a fucking toddler because i changed my meds. i hate that shit. i fucking told you i hate that shit.”

“well, i’m sorry for giving a shit about you.”

“i never fucking asked you to!” ian screams, reaching up to pull at his hair because it’s the only thing he can think to do to keep his mind from spiraling away from him. “i never fucking asked you to do any of this shit! i was on my own for years, mickey, dealing with this shit on my fucking own! i’m an adult, i know how to handle some bad fucking days! i’m not a fucking three year old no matter how much you fucking want to treat me like one!”

mickey huffs a laugh, throwing the sponge down into the sink and splashing soapy water everywhere. “fine then, asshole. i’ll leave you the fuck alone, if that’s what you want. i’ll let you handle your fucking self.” he dries his hands on his pants and then storms past ian, knocking their shoulders together so roughly that ian, still queasy and weak, stumbles backwards. 

the door slams behind mickey, and ian flinches at the sound. he knows mickey isn’t going anywhere because he  _ can’t  _ go anywhere, so he doesn’t bother chasing after him. he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. all of the yelling had completely drained his energy, and he feels like he might pass out. 

he sinks to the floor since the chair isn’t upright anymore, and leans against one of the table legs. he closes his eyes, breathes in and out, focuses on the sound of  _ malcolm in the middle  _ reruns playing in the living room. he tries to smell mickey’s cigarette, pretends that he actually can, so he can feel like he’s sitting next to mickey right now and not sitting underneath the kitchen table like a pathetic lump. 

it could be twenty minutes or two hours that ian sits under there, he isn’t sure. he isn’t even sure if he fell asleep or just disassociated, but when he opens his eyes, he’s staring at mickey’s knees. 

he trails his eyes up, lets them land on mickey’s face. mickey doesn’t look angry anymore, mostly just sad and confused, and the guilt eats at ian’s heart like a termite. “i’m sorry,” he whispers out, and mickey just tells him to shut up. “i am, though. i’m sorry.”

“i know,” mickey sighs, and then holds out his hands for ian to grab onto. “come on, man. that floor is gross as fuck, get up.” ian accepts the help, lets mickey stand him up. he lets mickey wrap an arm around his waist, lets mickey help him into the living room so he can settle on the couch. 

franny and liam are gone now, and the television is off. ian tries to remember if he heard that happen, but he comes up with nothing. 

mickey sits next to him on the couch, but doesn’t reach for him. for another moment, ian feels a surge of guilt, but then he figures that mickey is just trying to let him go at his own pace. so ian makes the move, shuffling closer. mickey opens his arms, lets ian settle his full weight into his side, and then holds him so tight that ian thinks that maybe, if they stayed here long enough, he’d get better. 

a lot of the time, ian feels like nobody ever truly loves him. different people love different parts of him—his siblings, his coworkers, his past romantic exploits, his parents, his friends. they all give him fragments of love, bits and pieces that ian tried, for years, to squeeze together like stained-glass only to have it shatter in his hands. there’s always something that makes it shatter. it’s probably him. he probably pushed too hard, tried too hard to make it fit. 

but he doesn’t feel that way with mickey anymore. mickey loves him whole. no fragments, puzzle pieces. no broken glass. not anymore. 

that’s why he feels so fucking guilty every time he lets mickey down. they’ve come so far, and mickey has put up with so much, and ian just keeps finding new ways to fuck everything up. 

“it’s the meds,” ian croaks out, though he’s sure mickey already knows. because mickey knows everything about him. “they’ve been fucking with me for weeks, ever since i got on them. it’s like i can’t fucking feel anything. like i’m walking around underwater, like i’m at patsy’s putting my hand on a hot stove again.”

mickey sighs, rubs ian’s shoulder blades. “you know you’ve gotta give them time to adjust.”

“i know, but i feel like shit,” ian mumbles. “and i’m treating you like shit.”

“no, you’re not. i’m not stupid, ian. i know that you don’t feel good and that’s why i’m trying to cut you a fucking break. but i also know that you hate feeling like a patient, so i’ve been trying to treat you normal too.”

ian closes his eyes against the wave of guilty tears. mickey tries so hard, and what does he get in thanks? a nonsensical fight over fucking laundry? “i’m sorry.”

“if you apologize one more fucking time i’m gonna kick your ass.”

“sorry,” ian says, and then he actually manages a chuckle when mickey raises his fist threateningly. “i just wanna go back to feeling normal.”

“just give it time, firecrotch. you’ll be back to your usual annoyingly energetic self before you know it. your body’s just confused as fuck right now and it’s throwing you off. nothing you haven’t dealt with before.”

“yeah, well, i’m sick of dealing with it. and i’m sick of making  _ you  _ deal with it. you shouldn’t have to.”

mickey scoffs. “i  _ don’t  _ have to. you really think you could force me to do shit that i don’t wanna do?” he teases, pressing his fingers into ian’s side. “come on, ian. you know i’m not ‘dealing with’ shit. i’m just helping you out because i love you. you’re my husband.”

those words make a whole new kind of warmth flood through ian’s chest, and he nearly sobs because of all the things he wants to feel again, that’s the one he’s missed most. 

“you’ve been putting up with all of my bullshit for a decade now,” ian mumbles, and mickey hums in acknowledgment. “i don’t know how you do it.”

“the same way you put up with mine. i’d do anything for you, same way you’d do anything for me.”

ian smiles a little bit, and then closes his eyes again. he’s still so, so fucking tired. “i wanna take a fucking nap,” he groans, and mickey laughs a little. 

“okay, fine, we can nap.” he lays back and lets ian settle himself on his chest. ian’s pretty sure he feels mickey kiss his hair, but he doesn’t bring it up because mickey would just deny it and probably flick him to make up for it, and ian wants to savor the feeling. “but after this, you’re seriously doing that fucking laundry. i’m out of clean underwear.”

ian snorts. “deal.” he looks up a bit, wants to tell mickey thank you, and sees mickey’s eyes are closed. he decides against saying anything more, instead closes his own eyes and tries to fall asleep. he can thank mickey later. there’s plenty of time. 

**Author's Note:**

> all mistakes are my own


End file.
